r 'ir T"^ €"'^ A 1 4 r f 1" 




£ s; 



'VA 



WlOIiM G0D3URN HUSTtD 




Class 

Book 

Gop\7ight)j°_ 



COFk-RlGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE SEA WIND 

A Book of Verse 



BY 



WILLIAM COLBURN HUSTED 




BOSTON 

SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 

1915 






COPYKIGHT, 1915 

Sherman, French & Company 



DEC 17 1915 



CU4I6936 






CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Summons 1 

The Highway 3 

Gossamer Slippers 4 

The April Woods 5 

The Wondrous Story 6 

From the Brooklyn Bridge 10 

A Pastoral 11 

Prophecies 13 

At Every Man's Door 14 

Memorial Day 16 

A Birthday Greeting 17 

General Antonio Maceo 19 

In the Saddle 20 

Rosalind 23 

The Forest of Arden 24 

Will You Come with Me, My Lass ... 25 

The Sea Wind 27 

" O'er Moor and Fen, O'er Crag and Tor- 
rent " 28 

An Old Portrait 29 

To A Bride 33 

At Vailima 34 

November 35 

The Song of the Birds 37 

Hymn 38 

George Du Maurier 40 

Cupid 41 

No Answer 44 

The Traveler 45 



PAGE 

The First Thought 47 

The Lawyer 48 

The Physician 50 

The Island 53 

The Stream 54 

The End of the Year 57 



THE SEA WIND 



THE SUMMONS 

There's a blue in the sky and a breath in the air 

From the gardens of Hesperus blowing, 
The hounds of the Spring are awake and aware 

That Winter's pale presence is going, 
For gone are the forces that held them at bay, 

And gone are the frost-ridden hours ; 
Old earth is aroused to the rapture today 

And is breathing and breaking in flowers. 

The robins are flinging their fountains of song. 

In cadences rising and falling, 
And out in the orchard a riotous throng 

Their jubilant chorus are calling; 
One burden is warbled by each feathered throat. 

One song in an ecstasy gushes ; 
The bluebirds began it with clear leading note. 

And gave it to robins and thrushes. 

The foot of the prophet has trodden the hills. 

And daffodils spring as he passes. 
He whispers release to the listening rills 

That tremble and thrill in the grasses. 
He touches the trees to their sheathings of 
green, 

A silent and visible token, 
And over the earth where his going is seen. 

The reign of the Winter is broken. 

[1] 



Disciples of Nature, the summons are heard. 

The impulse is clearly before us, 
For breaking of blossom and carol of bird 

Belong to an infinite chorus. 
And in this glad waking we too have a part. 

The drift of the song and its beauty 
Shall quicken the courage and speak to the heart 

Its message of hope and of duty. 



[2J 



THE HIGHWAY 

The mind a highway is. A constant throng 
Of travelers we call thoughts pursue their way 
In varying processions, day by day, 

Weaving the moods that unto each belong. 

Some march to music resolute and strong, 
Enkindled by the coming of the fray; 
While others follow, wrapped in sober gray 

Like weary pilgrims, chanting a low song; 

Some wear the prophet robes and utter bright 
And joyous messages as they hasten past, 
Interpreting life's dim and sacred need ; 
While stealing through the cover of the night, 
A horde of evil fancies gather fast, 

Like leagued assassins plotting some foul 
deed. 



[3] 



GOSSAMER SLIPPERS 

In gossamer slippers light and fleet, 

Pattered upon the grasses their feet. 

The mimic music arose and fell 

The livelong night through the leafy dell. 

The violin shrill was the cricket's croon, 
The bumble-bee was the big bassoon, 
As light and blithe as the summer air, 
They tripped their tricksy measures there. 

No watchers had they but the clumsy gnomes. 
Strayed away from their earthy homes. 
And a countless host of sylvan things 
With drowsy eyes and long, gray wings. 

But none invaded their mystic ground. 
And none disputed the fairies' bound, 
As filled with wine of honey and dew. 
They danced and feasted the whole night 
through. 

Bright were the toasts that were lifted up 
In the depth of the tiny acorn cup. 
Light and glad was each elfin soul. 
Quaffing the strength of the wassail bowl. 

A runner has come from the courts of the East 
To hasten the end of the dance and feast. 
The legions of Light are on Night's dark shore, 
And gossamer slippers are seen no more. 
[4] 



THE APRIL WOODS 

Like a great orchestra, attuned and strong, 
Just waiting for the signal to begin. 
When flute and 'cello, harp and violin. 
Shall break together into raptured song 
On some high theme where Youth and Hope be- 
long. 
And Doubt and Sorrow dare not enter in, — 
For Life is lord, and destined still to win 
The mighty vantage over Death and Wrong, — 
So seem the woods to me this April day. 
As late I loiter in the tranquil light. 

And mark the deep tone-color yet unseen. 
Soon every tufted sprig and tasselled spray 
Will break in beauty on my gladdened sight 
In one great shimmering symphony of 
green. 



[5] 



THE WONDROUS STORY 

Long years ago, — so runs the wondrous 
story, — 
In Bethlehem town one clear and shining 
morn 
When Roman strength had dimmed Judea's 
glory, 
A little Child was bom. 

Peace ruled the world; hushed was the noise of 
battle 
Throughout the borders of the dreaming 
earth, 
When in the straw among the crowding cattle 
This Baby had His birth: 

There was no room ; the Mother was not able 
To find a shelter, to her sad surprise. 

And so it chanced that in a lowly stable 
He opened His sweet eyes. 

Without the village, on the hill-slopes keeping 
Their quiet guard beside their flocks that 
night, 

A band of shepherds, vigilant, unsleeping. 
Beheld a wondrous sight. 

For clear above them, like a curtain lifted. 
The parted skies revealed a radiant throng 
[6] 



Of angels praising God, from whom there 
drifted 
That first dear Christmas song. 

" Be not afraid," they said, " there is no dan- 
ger; 

Good tidings of great joy to you we bring, 
For unto you this hour in Bethlehem's manger 

Is born your promised King. ^ 

" Go, — seek the Saviour in His lowly station ; 

His glorious reign on earth shall never cease. 
For on this day to you and every nation 

We bear good-will and peace." 

But when the shining heralds had departed, 
The wondering shepherds through the morn- 
ing mild 

Back to the village hastened happy-hearted, 
Seeking the new-born Child. 

And when amid the hay and straw they found 
Him 

Beside His Mother in that narrow stall. 
In simple love and faith they knelt around Him 

And owned Him Lord of all. 

Then from the East, with earnest, swarthy 
faces. 
Three princely strangers journeyed from afar 
[7] 



Across the mountains, through the desert 
places, 
Led by a glorious star. 

Like a bright messenger of hope it sped them, 
A guide and escort on their steadfast way, 

Until beside the manger-bed it led them. 
In which the young Child lay. 

Then filled with love and eager to adore Him, 
Before the Babe their treasure they unfold; 

And in their lowly worship spread before Him 
Myrrh, frankincense, and gold. 

But at these stately strangers Mary won- 
dered, — 
Their costly presents, and the homage done ; 
The while with mother-love she dreamed and 
pondered 
Above her little Son. 

The centuries pass, — and lo \ that ancient story 
Still holds its meaning wonderful and bright. 

As once again we catch the far-off glory 
Of that first Christmas night. 

And still for us that angel choir is singing 
In heavenly melodies that shall never cease, 

To all the weary and the way-worn bringing 
Its pledge of love and peace. 
[8] 



And still for us that beauteous star is glowing 
With its soft lustre in those Eastern skies, 

To those who seek the Saviour plainly showing 
The stable where He lies. 

And if we hasten to that royal manger, 

As did the others on their raptured quest. 

We find the little Child, though not a stranger, 
Upon the Mother's breast. 



[9] 



FROM THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE 

City of homes, thy tall and stately spires 

Are pencilled clear against the evening skies, 
Bidding the laggard thought take wing and 
rise 

Above the drift of doubt and vague desires. 

Serene and bright as thine own household fires. 
Glow the rich memories while the daylight 

dies, — 
Thy zeal for truth, thine ardent charities, 

And love of social cheer that never tires. 

Although for thee the selfish thirst of power 
And lust of gain have wrought their sovereign 
will, 
And yoked thy strength to ends beyond thy 
choice, 
The past shall bloom like some bright, tropic 
flower, 
And from the mist of years there echoes still 
The mighty throb of Boanerges' voice. 



[10] 



A PASTORAL 

When the broad and sombre shadows 
Lie along the sloping meadows, 
Turn the cattle sleek and ready 

From the pastures where they roam; 
Urged by no unkind insistence 
From the softly fading distance, 

Hear their hoof-treads slow and steady 
In the twilight coming home. 



Jangle, jangle sounds the wrangle 
Of the bells through field and tangle. 
Ever sinking, ever swelling. 
In a soft incessant chime, — 
Growing ever clear and clearer 
As the herd is coming nearer. 
With their merry clangor telling 
The return of milking time. 



By the margin of the river 
Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 
And the wild-fowl in the sedges, 
Watch the slipping of the tide, 
All the cattle, straightway turning 
With a swift, instinctive yearning. 
Lean their dry lips to the edges 
Close along the water side. 

[11] 



Like a veil the dusk is falling, 
And the drowsy chorus calling. 

Stars are springing in the ample 
Acres of the upper dome; 
Nothing now the silence breaking 
But the sounds of night awaking, 
And the dull and steady trample 
Of the cattle coming home. 



[12] 



PROPHECIES 

The bitter north wind sweeps this wintry day 
In restless haste along the empty street, 

The while with shielded sight I press my way 
Against the cutting sleet, 

But with a sudden j oy my spirit thrills, 

For in the florist's window there appear 

The golden faces of the daffodils 
To say that Spring is near. 



[13] 



AT EVERY MAN'S DOOR 

It may be when the skies are grey, before the 
light is strong ; 

It may be when the fretted day has worn to 
even-song ; 

It may be when the midnoon light is on the hun- 
dred hills 

Or the vast cavern of the night in lonely silence 
fiUs; 

And whether from the west or east, 
Or from the northern shore, 

Fortune standeth once at least 
At every man's door. 

Away upon the tossing sea her argosies are 

rolled, 
And rich and rare their freightage be of treasure 

and of gold. 
The happy mariners who stand and tend each 

swelhng sail 
Discern afar the waiting land which they are 

bound to hail. 
But whether from the west or east, 

Or from the southern shore. 
Fortune standeth once at least 
At every man's door. 



[14] 



Her hands are filled with gracious gifts for those 

who toil in vain; 
The burden of despair she lifts from prisoners 

of pain ; 
A high resolve and sturdy heart she brings to 

those who wait, 
So fling your portals far apart and greet her at 

the gate, 
For surely from the east or west 

Or from a central shore. 
Fortune stands when it is best 
At every man's door. 



[15] 



MEMORIAL DAY 

In fancy still we see those brave lads marching 
Against the dark intrigue, the leaden rain, 

Beyond the Southern hills, across the parching 
And stripped plantations of that proud do- 
main, — 

Still moving on; the blue sky over-arching. 
Filled with the echoes of their battle strain. 

And now they lie beneath the long lush grasses 
In that strange semblance of a dreamless 
sleep. 
The slanting sunlight blesses as it passes, 
And night by night the stars their watches 
keep. 
The mournful winds still breathe their burial 
masses, 
Keyed to the ocean's music low and deep. 



[16] 



A BIRTHDAY GREETING 

To Mrs. William R. Williams on her seventy-ninth 
birthday, December 3d, 1896. 

Sometimes a sunset at a long day's end 
Its choicest wealth of color will withhold, 

But as the shadows of the night descend 
Reveals its rose and amethyst and gold. 

Sometimes a garden growth seems wholly lost 
To watchful sight through summer sun and 
shower, 

But at the coming of the early frost 

It breaks at length in rare and perfect flower. 

Sometimes a noble symphony has shown 

Its mighty range in wondrous measures cast. 

But saves its special strength, its deepest tone. 
Its sweetest strain of music, till the last. 

And so a human life is sometimes led, 

As one by one the long slow years increase. 

On weary feet the lowly paths to tread 

And reach at length a Beulah-land of peace. 

May it be yours to treasure and to hold 

This tranquil time as care and strength al- 
low; 
To feel, like those at Cana's feast of old. 

That you have kept the best wine until now. 
[17] 



And may the Guest of that high, festal hour 
Be ever with you through your whole life long, 

To work His miracle in breaking flower. 
In sunset light, in strain of noble song. 

And when for you and us some far-oif year 
The change shall come, devoid of fear and 
sting, 

Like a bright sentry may its form appear 
To open wide the gateway of the King. 



[18] 



GENERAL ANTONIO MACEO 

Like some brave hero of the long ago 

We mourn his passing, for his cause was just. 

His country's freedom was a holy trust, 
And for its sake he faced a deadly foe. 
His heart aflame with liberty's warm glow. 

In valiant faith he trod the battle dust. 

He met the Spanish hate, its savage lust, 
Until the dastards brought his strong life low. 

Fear not, O patriot! like the Southern Cross 
That sheds its lustre from the tropic skies. 
Thy memory shines till time itself shall 
cease ; 
Nor yet in vain shall be thy country's loss, 
For Cuba, free, untrammeled, shall arise. 
And gain at last her long bright dream of 
peace. 



[19] 



IN THE SADDLE 

Oh what in the world has the freshness and 
flavor 

Of utter release from the matter-of-course 
As bidding farewell unto spirits that waver 

And having a seat on the back of a horse. 

To feel underneath one the spring of the leather, 
And yield to the motion so steady and strong, 

To drink in the wine of the ripe golden weather, 
And gaily and fearlessly gallop along. 

Down in the meadow a bobolink passes. 

Brushing the clover with quick-flashing wings ; 

Leaving his nest snugly hid in the grasses. 
Sudden and sweet is the carol he sings. 

Up in the treetop a robin has caught it ; 

He flutes and he warbles his answering song. 
Straight to our senses the breezes have brought 

it, 
It rings in our ears as we gallop along. 

What is the joy that is just running over 

From Nature's full spirit in perfume and 
sound. 
That is felt in the bird song and smelt in the 
clover. 
And echoes and rings from the hoof-beaten 
ground ? 

[20] 



The horses are stirred by the zest of the canter 
And need not the tingling of whip-lash or 
thong ; 
As though at the wand of some guiding en- 
chanter 
They strongly and steadily gallop along. 

Nature is full of her manifold voices, — 
All that a countless creation can yield 

Numberless echoes of sweet country noises 
Blown from the forest and blown from the 
field. 

Forward ! — like warriors hast'ning to battle. 

Hear how the hoof-beats sound, — steady and 
strong ! 
Starting the herds of the low-browsing cattle 

A moment in fear as we gallop along. 

Now on the hillside and now in the valley 

And now in the woodland our courses we find. 

In the long gallop our better thoughts rally 
And scatter the doubt and the dread of the 
mind. 

Now for a moment our fancies are idle. 

And now we are singing a gay dashing song, 

As lightly we bend to the bit and the bridle. 
And strongly and steadily gallop along. 
[21] 



For what in the world has the freshness and 
flavor 

Of utter release from the matter-of-course 
As bidding farewell unto spirits that waver 

And having a seat on the back of a horse. 



[22] 



ROSALIND 

She stands at Shakespeare's window blithe and 
fair, 
With dimpled cheeks and blue, bewitching 

eyes. 
About her like a veil the sunlight lies ; 
It shimmers through the meshes of her hair. 
No weight hath she of weariness or care, 

For light as wings her buoyant spirits rise. 
To probe the strength of Love in brave dis- 
guise. 
And make a very mockery of Despair. 

To her rapt mood the Arden thought is borne, — 
The brush of forest boughs, the birds' clear 
note. 
The trickling of the brooks through weed 
and cress, 
The silver summons of the hunter's horn 

That calls and calls again from some remote. 
Dim covert of the leafy wilderness. 



[23] 



THE FOREST OF ARDEN 

What drowsy murmurs fill the ancient place! 

Along the aisles what dreamy pleasaunce lies ! 

Like sudden ghosts old memories arise 
At every turn, and meet us face to face. 
Here Rosalind wrought her witcheries of grace, 

And wore the manhood in such valiant guise ; 

Here sad Orlando drew his heavy sighs, 
And roamed the wood with sad and thoughtful 
pace. 

Here Mirth and Frolic played at masquerade. 
And sparkling jests like javelins were hurled, 
And Love laughed on through every change 
of mood, 
While shy wood-creatures saw with eyes afraid 
The gay caprices of the outer world 
In the deep silence of their solitude. 



[24] 



WILL YOU COME WITH ME, MY LASS 

When the presence of Spring is spoken 

To the sense of the quickened earth, 
And every hint and token 

Proclaims the great green birth, 
When the birds are busily nesting 

And life is strong in the grass, 
When the world is weary of resting 

Will you come with me, my lass? 

When Summer is swathed in roses 

And sweet with the flush of June, 
When the whole wide land reposes 

Asleep to a drowsy tune. 
When the sunshine is brightly streaming 

And the breezes pause as they pass. 
When the world is lost in dreaming 

Will you come with me, my lass? 

When the globe of the grape is drooping 

And Autumn is drunk with wine, 
When the red and the russet are grouping 

Their thoughts upon tree and vine. 
When the golden rod and the aster 

Sway lightly amid the grass. 
And the sands of the year run faster. 

Will you come with me, my lass ? 

[25] 



When the wealth that the earth inherits 

Is squandered in fierce delight, 
And legions of mocking spirits 

Laugh on through the Winter's night, 
When streams have strengthened their ranges 

With barriers clear as glass. 
Through all the year's sweet changes 

Will you come with me, my lass? 



[26] 



THE SEA WIND 

As when the sea wind, freshening from the coast, 
Blows in upon the hot and arid plain. 

Bringing to weary souls that need it most 
The rimy flavor of the great, salt main. 

And turns their tired plaint to tuneful praise, 

So does the tonic of some strong, pure thought 
Strike in upon our dull and barren moods. 

With all the vigor of suggestion fraught. 
It lifts our souls to nobler altitudes. 

Beyond the dusty level of our days. 



[27] 



« O'ER MOOR AND FEN, 
O'ER CRAG AND TORRENT" 

When twilight shadows deepen into night 

Beneath the sky, 
And all unknown before my doubting sight 

The dark moors lie. 
Across the lonely leagues I trust Thy will; 
As Thou hast led me, Thou wilt lead me still. 

When trackless fens stretch desolate and dim 

On every side. 
Now shrunken wastes, now flooded to the brim 

By bubbling tide. 
Upon the spongy soil there is no need 
Of ceaseless dread, for Thou wilt surely lead. 

When heavy crags hang treacherous and steep 

Above my head, 
And I am sore perplexed what hold to keep. 

What way to tread. 
Along the rocky verge I walk at will. 
Calm in the courage that Thou leadest still. 

And when the torrent in its whelming wrath 

Breaks fierce and wild, 
And filled with sudden fear I miss the path. 

Like a lost child. 
Above the flood the steadfast stars I heed. 
And find assurance that Thou still dost lead. 
[28] 



AN OLD PORTRAIT 

A WHILE ago, one idle afternoon, 
When thought was sad and life was out of tune, 
When something harsh had crept into the song. 
Where only truly love and joy belong, 
Upon a canvas, clothed in serious mood, 
I saw the face of Lady Hermentrude. 

A sudden sense of tender feeling came 
From out the portrait in that antique frame, 
A world of hidden passions seemed to rise 
Within the glances of those lovely eyes. 
That dark and deep, their dreamy beauty 

caught. 
Like evening shadows thrown in wells of thought. 

The eager lips were half apart to speak. 
And rich the damask in her curving cheek. 
The old traditions of a lofty race 
Were all reflected in the perfect face. 
And in the full throat's open loveliness 
Above the bodice of her velvet dress. 

V 

As fell that garment brightly, fold on fold. 
In heavy masses from her belt of gold. 
Its deep and crimson lustre seemed to shine 
With all the passion of imprisoned wine; 
It robed her fully with its ample grace, 
A perfect setting for a perfect face. 
[29] 



Sweet is the story that the centuries tell; 
It has no mellow chime of wedding bell, — 
No breath of orange bloom, no bridal veil 
Have any entrance in that dim old tale, 
But in their sober stead we only find 
The strong allegiance of a loyal mind. 

She lived unwedded on her wide estates, 
With many tenants round her castle-gates ; 
Bright and enchanted were the passing hours 
Among her music and her books and flowers ; 
Her halls were thronged with guests that went 

and came. 
And paid their homage to a proud old name. 

Time ran in golden grooves, — her broad domain 
Was rich in bending corn and waving grain. 
The summer yielded many a thousand fold, 
And large results her careful records told; 
Her people feasted in good faith and cheer, 
As plenty came and crowned the growing year. 

A single cloud upon a summer sky 
Foretokens often that a storm is nigh; 
Its simple presence leads the sudden train 
Of whirling wind and swift descending rain; 
So to the quiet of this happy band 
There came a stranger from a distant land. 

The Famine came, — a grim and dismal guest, — 
And carried terror into every breast ; 
[30] 



The roses withered on the garden walks, 
The corn was shattered in its tasselled stalks, 
The harvest rotted in the moldy ground. 
And fruitless toil the anxious reapers found. 

But presently a blacker shadow fell 
To darken faith and try the people well, 
A deadlier sorrow spread on every side, — 
By scores and scores the little children died. 
For Fever followed with its tainted breath. 
And worked its mission hand in hand with 
Death. 

Still deadlier grew the scourge; a very curse 
Seemed launched and settled on the universe. 
The men were stricken in their strength and 

pride ; 
A reign of terror filled the countryside. 
Until at last the mothers and the wives 
In dull despair laid down their troubled lives. 

Moved by an impulse sprung from love divine. 
With wheat and bread and flasks of ruddy wine 
And little dainties from her own small store. 
Brought out in peril from some distant shore. 
Among her people desolate and rude. 
With heart of faith came Lady Hermentrude. 

She left the safety of her castle-wall, 
Through gates of stone she heard her people 
call; 

[31] 



She saw the death and anguish in the land, 
And to its rescue brought her little hand. 
Life seemed to rally at the gentle press 
Of her soft touch, bestowed in kindliness. 

She gave up all for love, — for love of them 
Who knelt in dust to kiss her garment's hem. 
With heavy stress she wrought and wrestled 

long. 
And turned the voice of mourning into song. 
The grief to gladness, till the scourge was past. 
And then in love she gave her life at last. 

No sculptor's chisel ever chanced to trace 

The royal purpose in her lovely face ; 

In starry strains no poet ever told 

The shining virtue of that deed of gold; 

In this old-fashioned portrait lies alone 

The grace and beauty lost to song and stone. 



[32] 



TO A BRIDE 

Upon this bright, auspicious day 

These roses I would send 
In fragrant language to convey 

The greetings of a friend. 
May sunny fortune smile on you 

In long, enchanted hours. 
And may the way your whole life through 

Be scattered thick with flowers. 



[33] 



AT VAILIMA 

Across blue waters under sunset skies, 

'Mid fronded verdure beautiful and bright, 
Alone, unguarded, on that mountain height. 

His lance at rest, our true knight-errant lies. 

Bravely he faced those sombre mysteries 
That drew around him in his constant fight. 
Nor guessed their secret till the golden light 

Flashed their full meaning on his closing eyes. 

O Mother Nature, fold him to thy breast 
As one outwearied in the stress of years, 
And lull him with thy music wild and deep. 
But let no alien thing assail his rest; 

Nought but the dropping of thine own warm 
tears 
To break the stillness of his perfect sleep. 



[34] 



NOVEMBER 

The trees of the forest stand naked and tall 

In the silent and frosty air; 
With beckoning fingers their gaunt limbs call 

Our spirits to fasting and prayer. 
And straight from the mood of the woodland is 
caught 

The trace of the truth austere, 
That this is the time for sober thought, 

The Puritan month of the year. 

The mind moves on in the well-worn track. — 

A pilgrim with scrip and staff 
And steadfast face, for it turns not back 

Nor yields to a look or laugh; 
And the year bears off what the year has taught 

In its message of hope and fear. 
For this is the time for sober thought. 

The Puritan month of the year. 

But love remembers ; with vision bright 

And her meanings manifold, 
She comes once more with her kindling light 

To the hearth-stones dark and cold. 
The torch of truth in her hand is brought 

To be hailed with festal cheer. 
Though this is the time for sober thought, 

The Puritan month of the year. 
[35] 



She whispers low that the doubt and pain 

And the seeming death will pass ; 
That hope and joy will return again 

With the leaves and the greening grass ; 
That the same dear flowers shall again be 
sought, 

And the singing birds appear, 
Though this is the time for sober thought. 

The Puritan month of the year. 



[36] 



THE SONG OF THE BIRDS 

When the spring buds fresh and vernal 

Burst in beauty all around 
In their loveliness supernal, 

When the violets are found, 
Ever reigneth God eternal. 

When the buttercups and daisies 

Herald in the summertide. 
And the early morning hazes 

Over verdant fields preside, 
Loudly do we chant His praises. 

When the earth with regal splendor. 
Clothed in ruby-tinted leaves 

Summons Nature to attend her, 
'Mid the garnering of sheaves 

Heart devotions do we render. 

And when Winter's snowy tresses 
Shake their white down in the air, 

Covering with soft caresses 

All the landscape bleak and bare, 

Still the universe He blesses. 



[37] 



HYMN 

Written for the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of 

the founding of the First Church of Lincoln, 

Massachusetts, August, 1898. 

The Church of God with living power 

Her ancient watch is keeping, 
Her strength renewed from hour to hour. 

Her sentries never sleeping. 
Founded upon a Rock 
She meets the storm and shock, 

And gives from age to age 

Our choicest heritage, — 
Her truth and her tradition. 



The ways we tread our fathers trod, 
Their standards move before us; 

They worshipped here the selfsame God, 
They joined the selfsame chorus. 

The light they sought of old 

In fullness they behold. 

Through peril and through loss 
They conquered by the Cross 

And faith in their Redeemer. 

The hordes of sin are pressing hard. 

Our secret force assailing; 
They strive to move us from our guard. 

But it is unavailing. 

[38] 



From strength to strength we go, 
Victorious o'er the foe. 

We win because we must; 

Our triumph and our trust 
Are in the God of battles. 

And so, through all the coming years, 

We have the surety ever; 
Nor craven doubts, nor tyrant fears, 

From us His love can sever. 
Eternal and secure 
His promises endure; 

And guarded by His grace, 

We seek the heavenly place, — 
The life that is immortal. 



[39] 



GEORGE DU MAURIER 

As Bordermen who mourn their fallen chief 
Stand mute and still beside the sombre bier, 
Grieving that Life should spend its sunny 
cheer 

In deeds too quickly done, in days too brief, — 

So we, amid the freshness of our grief, 

Dwell long and deeply on this memory dear; 
The artist's strength, the manliness sincere. 

The woman's tenderness, the child's belief. 

And we have faith that somewhere in the choice 
And starry spaces it shall be our part 
To cherish still the presence as of old. 

To hear the music of the kindly voice. 
And feel the pulsing of the poet heart. 
Telling the stories that are yet untold. 



[40] 



CUPID 

There is an urchin on the earth 
Who wanders between the poles. 
He comes of high, immortal birth, 
And plays his pranks in endless mirth 
On all unwary souls. 

On dancing feet he roams among 

The folk of every land. 
Across his back his bow is hung, 
And many arrows yet unflung 

By his unerring hand. 

He enters the world in tricksy guise. 

He frolics in masquerade. 
Wherever are set his laughing eyes. 
His fleet and feathered arrow flies, 

His vigilant charge is made. 

His aim is sure and the darts go deep. 

With " Love-lies-bleeding " tipped. 
He knows what potent charms to keep. 
And gathers the herb when mortals sleep 
And memory's leash is slipped. 

In all the affairs of the gray, old world 

He plays his frisky part. 
In every hour his dart is hurled. 
With swift and fearless freedom whirled 

At many a human heart. 

[41] 



For all who scorn such trifling things 

And turn to other fields, 
Will hear the whir of his elfin wings, 
And feel the pricks of the poisoned stings 

The dainty tyrant wields. 

To those who fear his artful plot. 

He comes in hodden gray ; 
They let him in, for they know him not, 
And once within the captured spot. 

He has his whim and way. 

And they who meet with an iron will 

His sly and constant thrust, 
By eager wings are followed still; 
He grinds them all in the same old mill ; — 

They yield, because they must. 

He spreads his snares for mortal feet 

With deft and dainty care. 
He leads them on with whispers sweet. 
And once within there is no retreat; 

They are firmly fastened there. 

They strive to break the silken skein 

His nimble skill has wound; 
They use their strength with might and main. 
But find the labor all in vain, — 

They are completely bound. 

[43] 



He uses then his hoarded spite, 

When wits are all adrift, 
He flies about to left and right, 
And sends at last a sudden flight 

Of arrows keen and swift. 

In pleasant paths their lines are cast. 

Deny it, ye who can. 
The saucy mentor holds them fast. 
And gives to each his wage at last. 

The bliss of a married man. 

A moment, then, in mimic spite. 

The mocking spirit leans; 
He chuckles low at their luckless plight, 
Then spreads his wings in new delight. 

And flies to other scenes. 



[43] 



NO ANSWER 

Grant's tomb at the return of the ships from the 
Spanish War, September, 1899. 

Did the warrior stir in his startled sleep 

When the heavy cannon-roar 
Awoke the echoes loud and deep 

On the river's wooded shore? 

Did the mighty voice of the watching land 

Recall for a moment's space 
The iron force to the nerveless hand, 

The flush to the pallid face? 

The ships are back in their war paint grim; 

They join in their long salute ; 
But have no answering hail from him, 

For the bearded lips are mute. 

The ships are back from their holy quest ; 

They pass in the middle stream. 
But bring no thrill to the hero's breast^ 

No grandeur to his dream. 

The voices call, but he will not wake. 

No thunder long and deep, 
Nor any noise of earth can break 

The magic of that sleep. 



[44] 



THE TRAVELER 

He can tell of Europe's wondrous things, 
Of crowns and palaces and kings, 
And all the regal happenings. 

In glowing language he can paint 
The mighty abbeys old and quaint, 
The graves of hero and of saint; 

Westminster, with its holy glooms 
And silences, and peopled tombs, 
A kingly host in kingly rooms ; 

Fair Melrose with the ancient stone 

Owl-tenanted and ivy-grown. 

And over all the moonlight thrown. 

The waiting ear he can entrance 
With all the legends and romance 
Of Germany and sunny France. 

And in his language you divine. 
As sparkling as its native wine. 
The far-off rushing of the Rhine. 

Each memory one by one appears 
To shine amid the hopes and fears 
That haunt the long, succeeding years. 
[45] 



Within those years will surely be 
A time of toil and threnody 
And then the time of high degree. 

For coronation comes at last, 
And when the clouds are overpast 
He wonders it has come so fast. 

He half-regrets the gathered gold, 

In thinking of the days of old, 

The happy days " that have been told." 



[46] 



THE FIRST THOUGHT 

I OFTEN wonder what was Christ's first thought 
When He arose upon that Easter mom, 
The folds of clinging death forever torn, 

The work of strong redemption fully wrought. 

Within the rapture was some memory caught 
Of the humanity that He had borne, — 
That lowly life of heavy sorrow worn. 

And the transcendent sacrifice it brought? 

Or did His loosened thought an instant rise 

In swift transition to the heavenly land. 

Amid the alleluias and the praise. 

To have impressed on His illumined eyes 
The royal heritage at God's right hand 
That stands in strength beyond the end 
of days. 



[47] 



THE LAWYER 

We hear the whisper of a name 
Secure in an enduring fame 

That passing days reveal, 
The name of one who plays his part 
With steady aim and sturdy heart 

For the broad common weal. 

He holds in strict and sacred awe 
The silent majesty of Law 

On its eternal throne, 
And with his high, entrusted power 
In many a stern and crucial hour 

He makes its message known. 

Sometimes his strong and trenchant words 
Will shiver like Damascus swords. 

And turn their edges keen, 
And then again his satined speech 
Will fall within an easy reach, 

Illumined and serene. 

He feels the virtue of his cause 
That moves without an instant pause 

To its appointed goal, 
And pregnant with its vital need, 
It spends its largess in its speed 

Beneath his wise control. 
[48] 



He hears the silver measures chime 
Amid the discords of the time 

In clarion tones and strong, 
And quickened by their bright appeal, 
He puts his shoulder to the wheel 

In league against the wrong. 

Within the temple Wisdom rears 
Is writ by the recording years 

The honor of his name. 
While Justice throws from her high seat 
The laurel wreath that makes complete 

His triumph and his fame. 



[49] 



THE PHYSICIAN 

Mankind is forfeit of his trust ; 

He reads through tears the sentence just 

Pronounced upon him, " Dust to dust " ; 

For penalty he loses peace. 
But still the vast, controlling Cause 
That knows the curse of broken laws 
Will sometimes in His vengeance pause 

And send instead a swift release. 

Life is a school wherein we learn 
The kindling creeds at every turn 
That meet us with their meanings stern 

And press the truths we will not heed. 
We wanton with our little power. 
We pluck the bright, forbidden flower 
And bring at last the evil hour 

To reap the growth of scattered seed. 

The magic of that Hand divine 
That turned the water into wine 
And gave the never failing sign 

Of calm dominion over death. 
In lesser form is with us still 
To war with all encroaching ill, 
Nor shall it yield its power until 

The evil passes like a breath. 

But greater than the gain of gold. 
Or transient fame that hundreds hold, 
[50] 



And sweeter than the knowledge told 

In silver strains of prose and verse, 
Are the reflections that must steal 
Into the thoughts of those who feel, 
And have the power to help and heal, 
A fragment of earth's heavy curse. 

With earnest faith they probe within 
The dark results of Care and Sin, — 
Those allied foes that strive to win 

The trusted charge of nature's wealth. 
They come with swift and skillful aid 
Whene'er the dread assault is made, 
And by their hands of healing laid. 

Renew the treasuries of health. 

They know the chambers of the brain 
Are thronged with prisoners of pain 
That have for years in darkness lain. 

To rise at last in open strife. 
The healing strength has ample charm 
To quell the rumors of alarm 
And break the brunt of mortal harm 

That wars against a human life. 

And nobler gain have they at last. 
When life is lived and toil is past. 
Than any horoscope can cast 

Upon the fleet, fulfilling years, — 
A final gain, supreme and sure, 
[61] 



That follows those who help and cure, 
A gain that shall in strength endure 
Beyond the clashing of the spheres. 



[52] 



THE ISLAND 

An island sits in the sea, 

By fragrant breezes fanned. 

The waves in boisterous revelry 
Roll up the white, wide sand. 

And sea-birds scream along the shore 

A shrill reply to the ocean's roar. 

The isle is the Poet's soul, 

Where the wind of fancy plays. 

And the waves that ceaselessly roll 
Are the voices of Love and Praise, 

The noise of the sea-birds loud and long. 

The mocking cries of an alien throng. 



[63] 



THE STREAM 

Out in the dreary, storm-beaten East the cold, 
wet sky is raining; 
The long, gray lances of lashing rain fall 
fast on shore and sea; 
There is only heard the whir of bird and the 
cattle's low complaining. 
And the rivers' voice as they roll and re- 
joice in wildest revelry. 

They feel at length their fullest strength and 
break the bonds that bound them; 
They hasten and push with an onward rush 
to the lap of the dripping land ; 
They reach and keep in widening sweep the 
shrinking things around them. 
And hold them all in mighty thrall and des- 
perate command. 

The trees are low, as the waters flow, and come 
within their grasping; 
They leave their world and are wildly hurled 
to scenes of storm and strife. 
The rooted earth where they had birth is shorn 
of their close clasping. 
To be left content with the scar and rent and 
and wreck of a former life. 



[54] 



I 



There is a stream, — it can only dream in the 
midst of the rushing noises ; 
The banks are high, and it holds the sky in 
ever-constant sight. 
It can feel afar the thrill and jar of the mighty 
river voices 
But the restless heart can have no part in 
that scene of wild delight. 

It will never reach the silver beach where surges 
toss and thunder; 
It will never break from the sombre lake and 
join the gladdened throng; 
It will never find what is left behind the beau- 
tiful world of wonder, 
And steal its way some happy day with its 
own enchanted song. 

It just receives the withered leaves that fall in 
Autumn's turning. 
And lets them sink from the silent brink to 
the quiet depth below. 
It holds within, like a secret sin, that dumb and 
eager yearning 
To have surprise with its own glad eyes, to 
learn what the rivers know. 



[55] 



Others will tell of sounding swell and wide out- 
flashing riot; 
Others will land on the shining sand, and gain 
the promised rest; 
The lonely stream can only dream in solitude 
and quiet, 
And stifle deep into lasting sleep the aching 
in its breast. 

Out in the dreary, storm-beaten East the cold, 
wet sky is raining ; 
The heavy lances of lashing rain fall fast on 
shore and sea; 
There is only heard the whir of bird and the 
cattle's low complaining, 
And the rivers' voice as they roll and rejoice 
in wildest revelry. 



[56] 



THE END OF THE YEAR 

The light grows dim ; the fire bums low ; 
Without upon the crusted snow 
I hear the merry revelers go 

With glad all-hails and shouts of glee ;- 

But in my chamber dim and deep, 
Where heavy trailing shadows creep, 
My stern and patient watch I keep. 
Alone with faithful memory. 



[57] 



